


After The Game

by copperbadge



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Quidditch, locker-room sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-26
Updated: 2003-11-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 07:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love quite took Percy Weasley by surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Game

**Author's Note:**

> Written before Half Blood Prince, and does not adhere to canon of the last two books.

Love quite took Percy Weasley by surprise.

It wasn't at all what he imagined it would be. There was, according to the lurid books his mother read, supposed to be searing passion. According to Fred and George's comics, there should be high adventure and unbelievable sexual tension. At the very least, he was supposed to vanquish his competitors. 

As far as he could tell, he didn't have any. This was mildly disappointing.

And it wasn't that he didn't like Penelope. She was smart, and a Prefect, and everything the girl he was supposed to fall for was supposed to be. She had ambition, a quiet sort of style, she thought all the right thoughts and never acted impulsively or rashly or in an improper fashion --

She was so boring.

He wondered if other people thought the same thing about him, but there was simply no way he was as boring as Penelope Clearwater. Nobody could be that boring. Penelope, he sensed, must actually try for it. 

She seemed to try especially hard during Quidditch matches. Percy liked Quidditch as much as the next fellow, and of course as Head Boy one had to cheer on one's team; Penelope was simply rabid about it, though. And she was rabid in all the wrong ways -- she didn't really seem to care who won, she just liked to talk and talk and talk about the moves, and the robes, and the funny things that happened, and wasn't Fred odd-looking when he swung at a bludger, and did Percy know that in 1622 there had been a game where --

It was enough to drive one mad sometimes, it really was. But, though Penelope had talked at him all through the match, it had still been pretty good; at the same time she was talking, she was snuggled up against him, and Gryffindor had won, anyhow, so that was something. And now they were walking back towards the school, past the Quidditch shed, and Penelope had paid up the ten Galleons they'd bet, but she was still talking...

"Don't you think, Percy?" she was saying, when he returned from his thoughts. He glanced at her. 

"Er...right," he managed. "Listen, Penny, I've got to...congratulate the team. I'll catch up with you, right?"

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "Right then. See you later," she added, and ran off to join some of her Ravenclaw friends, who were unnervingly inclined to look at him and giggle when Penelope was around.

He ducked inside the locker rooms just as Harry left; the younger boy gave him a tired grin and ran off, probably to celebrate with Ron. At least he could hide out here for a few minutes -- 

"Hallo, Squeak!" someone called, from the showers. Percy poked his head around the corner. 

"Hallo, Lummox," he replied, grinning. Oliver Wood stood in his trousers and bare feet, rubbing the back of his head in an embarrassed sort of way. His shirt, robes, and greaves were dangling from a hook on one of the red enameled lockers; his broomstick leaned up against it, and a fluffy gold-and-scarlet towel hung around his shoulders.

"Been a while since anyone called me Lummox," he said, still smiling. 

"Been longer since anyone called me Pipsqueak," Percy shot back. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Heard Harry call out hi. Just getting ready for a shower," he added, and Percy turned to look away while he finished undressing. "That you at the game, making nice with the enemy?"

"Penelope's not the enemy."

"She's Ravenclaw, isn't she?" Oliver said, and Percy heard water gushing as one of the showers came on. Steam began to drift across the room.

"You've beaten them already. They're not the enemy if you've beaten them," Percy said with a sigh.

"Nah, then they're the victim!" Oliver called. "Hell of a trick Harry pulled on that Firebolt! Brilliant broomstick, eh?"

"I suppose," Percy said, shedding his robes as the steam from the shower heated the locker room. "I never really paid that much attention to broomstick comparison."

Oliver snorted over something, and Percy missed what he was saying in the rush of water.

"Ah, I feel human again," Oliver said, as the water shut off. He emerged, towel wrapped around his waist, and grabbed a smaller one to dry his hair with. "Love a good match, but it does kick up the muck, even on a clear day. Still, what's a little mud, right?"

"Sure," Percy replied uneasily. 

Oliver sat on the bench in front of the lockers, drying his hair off. "Say, what're you up to in the locker rooms, anyhow?" he asked.

"Thought I'd come say congratulations. Ripping good game and all," Percy stammered. He got a lopsided grin from the Quidditch captain for his trouble.

"That Clearwater, bit of a talker, eh?" he asked bluntly. 

"Now, that's unfair -- "

Oliver waved a hand dismissively. "Reach me the Shearsides, would you?"

His bright, keen sportsman's eyes following Percy as the Head Boy moved to pick up the Shearsides razor, very clearly labeled "O. Wood" in large letters -- Shearsides weren't cheap. Percy leaned back on the lockers across from Oliver, while the other boy looked down at the towel in his hands. 

Percy was aware that the other towel -- the one around Oliver's waist -- was gapping a bit. He also noticed that being a Keeper took work; Oliver's arms were ridiculously toned, his smooth chest broad and muscular. Oliver's face was carefully immobile as he set the Shearsides in motion; it shaved automatically, but if you didn't keep your head still, you could end up with some nasty nicks.

"Anyhow, maybe I ought to be off -- Penny's probably looking for me," Percy said, a bit unnerved by Oliver's stare. The Quidditch captain held up a hand, one finger extended. He waited patiently until the Shearsides finished, then caught it out of the air and laid it aside.

"You really cut out for the Head Boy life?" he asked, standing and turning to his locker. Percy expected him to begin dressing, but instead he merely folded the towel in his hands, and put it away. 

"What do you mean?"

"Come off it, Squeak, that all you want out of life? Penny the Dreadful and some job at the Ministry?"

"Better than crashing around on broomsticks, getting brained by Bludgers," Percy replied, a trifle crossly. Oliver gave him an almost feral grin. 

"Shy Percy Weasley, doing the family proud," he said. "Meanwhile, good old Oliver is banging through the school like a firecracker, playing games and only getting five OWLs. Who do you suppose is having more fun?"

"I didn't come to school to have fun," Percy answered, not at all comfortable with where this conversation was going, or the fact that Oliver's towel was still gapping. He'd only worn a thin dress shirt and trousers under his robes; he began to wish he hadn't taken the robes off...

"And that, Percy, is your tragedy," Oliver said. He moved to stand toe-to-toe with Percy; their eyes were perfectly level, though Percy still felt dwarfed by the other boy's broad chest and shoulders, his unruly thick hair. "You're going to stammer your way through life with your nose in the rulebook, because you're scared to be anything but Perfect Prefect Percy. Pipsqueak."

"And what exactly is it I'm supposed to be afraid of?"

"Getting what you want," Oliver said, in the same deep, ringing tones he'd been using since this conversation turned more serious than Percy was comfortable with. 

"What's that? Five OWLs and a few years on a broomstick before I'm down to selling Firebolts in a shop somewhere?" Percy asked. "What is it you think I want, Oliver?"

This time, Oliver's grin was absolutely feral.

"Me," he said, and pushed Percy back against the lockers, pinning him there. Their faces, barely inches apart -- then not even that, as Oliver took his head in both hands and kissed him, square on the lips. Percy flailed.

"What on Earth do you think -- " he began, when Oliver backed away. The other boy hadn't stopped smiling. 

"I'm not thinking," he said. "See? It's really pretty easy." And he kissed him again. Oliver's body (damp, muscular body) was pinning him against the lockers and Oliver's mouth (warm, inviting, firm) was on his and oh, there goes the towel...

"If you want," Oliver said, between kisses that Percy was really quite beginning to enjoy -- Penelope was not a one for tongues, much -- "to know why," Oliver, however, was, "you don't feel this...spark..." Percy began to feel he was perhaps far too dressed, "with your girlfriend, I can tell you," definitely not naked enough, "it's because you've been looking at me," he finished, leaning back. His body was still pinning Percy to the lockers. "And thinking about me, and dreaming about me -- "

"How did you -- " Percy demanded, then flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears.

"I didn't. But I do now," Oliver said, amused. He bent to nibble along Percy's jawline, moving his hips as he did so.

"Just the once," Percy moaned. "Listen, it didn't mean anything, all the books say so -- "

"We don't think. We don't read. We do not listen to books," Oliver said, in Percy's ear. His hands -- strong brown fingers, weathered from time spent at Quidditch practice -- were undoing the buttons on Percy's shirt. "We have been staring at Oliver Wood since we were fourteen..."

"Just because you got so tall so fast and you were a Quidditch Keeper and -- oh, please..."

"Please stop?" Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow. He had reached Percy's belt, pulled the shirt out of its careful tucks. "Or please...?"

"Why now?" Percy asked, ignoring the question. Oliver ignored it too; he slid his hands up Percy's rather pale, rather more wiry body, pushing the shirt off his shoulders. Percy leaned his head back, closed his eyes. 

"You came to me," Oliver said, kissing his adam's apple. His hands were drifting again. Percy's own arms were spread, supporting him, as his knees seemed rather weak...

"You came to me," the Keeper repeated, against Percy's skin. "She bores you, so you _finally_ came round and...well, after a match...we're all a little...high-strung."

"High...strung...?"

"Mmm. Harry likes to go polish his broomstick, and the twins make sure the bats are properly put away, and the girls, well, who knows..." Oliver smirked. His fingers were digging into Percy's waistband. He turned him, quite gently, by the hips. Percy rested his forehead against the cool metal of the locker. Oliver's chest pressed against his shoulderblades.

"Say you don't want it," he said softly. Percy sighed. "Say it now, Percy."

"And what," Percy managed to ask, pressing gently back against Oliver, "do you like to do, Oliver?"

Oliver smiled against his neck as he stripped Percy completely. 

"I stay behind and make sure the equipment is...stowed properly," he said. "Sometimes -- just relax, I know a spell -- sometimes it takes an hour to see that it's done right. There -- oh -- "

Percy moaned. Oliver chuckled. "Good, isn't it?"

"It feels...I don't..."

"Can't get this from books," the Keeper said, as he slid his hands around Percy's hips.

"I should certainly think not," Percy managed. "Library'd be...overrun, otherwise. Do that -- do that again -- "

Oliver laughed outright, this time, his hands working deftly on Percy's body. Then there was no room for words, no room for the fact that he was pressed against a locker, in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team room, being buggered by the team captain, who was doing the most outrageously enjoyable things with his body...there was just him and Oliver, and a dream he'd had (more than one time, all right, but the same dream, so that didn't count) since he was fourteen. Then there was just -- that -- moment...

When he thought he could put two words together again, he turned his head to the side. Oliver's forehead was pressed against his neck, and he was breathing heavily.

"You might want to take another shower," he said. Oliver managed a weak chuckle.

"So might you, but I'm not going to bother," he pointed out. "My god, that was good."

"Was it?"

"Well, wasn't it?"

"Oh...yes. I just meant..."

"That you hadn't a clue what you were doing?" Oliver asked, grinning. "It's all right, Squeak. It didn't show."

"Geroff me, Lummox."

Oliver stepped back, and gathered up his towel, tossing it into the laundry bin. He dressed, with a lack of self-consciousness that Percy, fumbling to pull on his shirt, could only admire.

"See you at dinner, then," Oliver said, pulling on his robe. "Head Boy."

"See you there, Captain."


End file.
